


Not a Star in the Sky

by adraztea



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-17
Updated: 2012-06-17
Packaged: 2017-11-07 23:54:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/436824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adraztea/pseuds/adraztea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>”Did you know,” John had asked, ”that these moles on your back almost exactly look like the constellation of Orion?”</i>
</p><p>Sherlock might be half a world away, but his thoughts had never left that moment. It was all he was trying to get back to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not a Star in the Sky

The bus driver turned the lights back on a couple of minutes before he took a right turn off the motorway. Sherlock took the appropriate amount of time (3.5 minutes) to look like he was slowly waking up. It involved pulling the hood of his sweater down over his eyes and frowning, and a great deal of twitching, but then he could finally stretch his long legs across both of the seats he was currently occupying. It was a good thing the bus wasn’t completely full, because if he had been forced to cram his body into a single seat, Sherlock would not have been in a good mood. 

Not that he would his define his current mood as ”good”. Three hours and fifteen minutes in a bus were three hours and fourteen minutes too long, and they had just barely passed the halfway mark of the journey. 

The night air was chilly when he stepped outside, and he inefficiently pulled the zipper of the sweater higher, as if the thin fabric would help. At least it was a bit warmer in the not-so-clean bathroom. He washed his hands afterwards, and then, because he was actually feeling tired, he splashed cold water on his face. 

The man who stared back at him in the mirror when he looked up only seemed vaguely familiar. Face far too thin, hair badly cut and too short, the dye-job (from a box) not very well done: the blond shade a bit too bright. 

Sherlock turned his eyes away. It was a decent disguise; one that made him look younger, different, unremarkable. It made him look like a person likely to be stuck on bus rides that lasted for hours without end, and it made it possible for him to travel across the world without anyone ever noticing him, but it didn’t mean that it was a disguise that he particularly liked. 

He walked out of the bathroom and headed for the restaurant, managing to find just enough spare change in his pocket to purchase a cup of coffee. He kept his head down as he went back outside. He didn’t look up even once as he found a spot by the side of the building. The brick wall was rough against his back as he leaned against it, but it felt good after all those hours in the cramped up space of the bus. Fifteen minutes, that was all he had before he had to get back on it. 

Fifteen minutes. It would never be enough, but it was all he had. He closed his eyes, leaned his head back against the wall, turned his face up towards the dark sky, and then he opened his eyes.

He found the familiar cluster of stars immediately. The constellation of Orion was the only one in the northern hemisphere he could pick out, and it was the only one that mattered. He could already feel the familiar tingle on his back.

\- - -

”Did you know,” John had asked, ”that these moles on your back almost exactly look like the constellation of Orion?”

They had been in bed, Sherlock warm and relaxed, lying on his stomach with his head resting on his arms. John had propped himself up on his right elbow, tracing a pattern on Sherlock’s back, right under the right scapula. 

”Betelguese, Bellatrix, Rigel. Sorry, I’ve forgotten the names of the others.” Silence for a while, then John’s fingers had pressed down on three different places, close to each other, somewhere in the middle of the pattern. ”These three here, that’s Orion’s belt. And down here,” he had painted a line down from the middle one, ”is the sword of Orion.” 

”I didn’t know,” Sherlock had answered. ”Now that I do, what am I supposed to do with that information?” 

”Oh, I don’t know,” John had said, ”Delete it?” and then he had leaned forward and rested his chin on Sherlock’s back, close enough to the area where his hand had still traced the pattern the moles formed, and his voice had become a murmur that resonated through Sherlock’s entire body. ”I used to love finding the Orion in the sky when I was a kid. Right here, in the middle of the sword,” a soft push of a finger on Sherlock’s back, ”is a nebula. Probably the most famous one, I think. The Orion Nebula. It’s were stars are born.” 

”Stars are _born?_ ” 

”Of course, and then they are taken care of in stellar nurseries, until they’re old enough to take care of themselves.” Sherlock had heard the smile in John’s voice, and he had laughed himself, just a little. ”No,” John had continued after a while, ”but a nebula is a big cloud of gas, and that gas is pressed together to form stars. Lots and lots of stars. To me, it always felt as if this, the Orion nebula, was the start of everything. The start of the universe.” 

His hand had never stopped moving, tracing that pattern until Sherlock could see the constellation behind his closed eyes, glowing against the darkness of his eyelids.

”Are you telling me,” he had asked, finally, his voice soft, ”that you think I’m the start of the universe?” 

”As far I’m concerned,” John had said, voice equally low, ”you _are_ my universe.” 

Then he had traced the invisible pattern with his tongue instead.

\- - -

His fifteen minutes were up. Sherlock threw the still full cup of coffee in a wastebasket on his way back to the bus. There were still so many things he had to take care of, still so many things he had to fix. All of them obstacles on his way back to where he belonged, back to Baker Street.

He had done his research on the Orion since that night, of course. He knew the name of the stars and their coordinates. He knew about the myth that had given the constellation its name and about the gases and particles and that the nebula was indeed a stellar nursery. Most of all he knew, that whenever he located the stars and the nebula of Orion’s belt he could still, however illogical, feel John’s fingers tracing the corresponding pattern on his back. 

Sherlock took a last look out the window before he pulled the hood of the sweater back up over his eyes. He had so much to do. So many threads of Moriarty’s spiderweb left to cut.

One day, it would all be worth it.


End file.
